


Join the Academy

by CourfeyracFredMariusCratchit



Series: The Lysani Chronicles [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dark Elves, Empath, Gen, High Elves, I swear the worst of it is in poor Courfeyrac's backstory, Magic!AU, Princes, Princesses, Really cute friendships, Telepath, mild description of a panic attack in chapter 1, mild reference to gore in chapter 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourfeyracFredMariusCratchit/pseuds/CourfeyracFredMariusCratchit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the world of Lysani, magic and science have evolved side by side. The prestigious Academy is the only place where the fueding factions of Lysani peacefully co-exist. It also happens to be the place where Les Amis de l'ABC meet for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Courfeyrac

Courfeyrac is 5 years old when he discovers his powers.

It also happens to be the day his beloved older brother, Éttiene, dies.

Ever since Éttiene had left to fight the Second Great War, Maman had been worried. She tried to hide it, but Martin knew. Martin always knew. So when he woke Monday morning to a pang of anxiety, Martin assumed it was just because he knew Maman was upset. He never thought to tell anyone—he didn’t want to worry Maman more. So he just shrugged and forgot about it.

 

Miles away, Éttiene was receiving orders—he and his squadron had been assigned to battle a known raiding party of the rebel Skinchangers. It would be his first and last time seeing action. 

 

He’s climbing a tree the next time it happens, the feeling intensified this time. The shock of it is enough to make him lose his grip on the branch, tumbling to the ground. Luckily enough, it was a low branch, but the unexpected wave of fear combined with the fall leaveds him stunned, gasping for breath on the rough ground. “Martin? Are you alright?” It’s Marie, his friend and climbing partner.  
“Y-yeah. I’m fine.” His voice is shaky, but Marie lets it go. God knows the kid does enough weird stuff, this probably isn’t any different. The feeling fades, and he forgets about it with the vivacity of any child with better games to play.

 

Éttiene, in the meanwhile, has caught his first glimpse of the foe. It’s a much larger host than they’d been led to expect, and Skinchangers are always a frightening sight.

 

The rest of the day goes by quickly, as summer days will. Before long, he is being tucked into bed. It’s a sign of the times that it is Maman putting him to bed instead of the governess. She’s reading him a story when he’s struck with a moment of absolute terror, unlike anything he’s felt before. He tries to ignore the feeling, but he’s trembling and crying. “Martin, darling, what’s wrong?” He shakes his head—he doesn’t know what this is, what’s happening to him. And he can’t tell what he doesn’t know. But the longer he ignores the mounting fear, the worse it gets. His chest feels tight, like he’s in the middle of a too-small elastic band, and it’s all he can do to just breath.

 

The battle is fierce and fiery and deadly. Éttiene is not the first to die, nor is he the last, but a comrade who witnesses it takes particular notice. There is, at first, the ‘normal’ terror and pain in his eyes as the Skinchanger’s panther claws him, easily tearing through armor to reach flesh and bone. But then—something changes. There is an eerie calm to the young de Courfeyrac’s face, a sense of peace even as he lies, dying what Robert knows to be an extremely painful death. 

 

The moment seems to last forever, but it does eventually end. The strange, sudden terror is gone, leaving him weakly holding onto his Maman, exhausted. The experience seemed to have snapped something inside him, and he slowly realizes that he can feel Maman’s fear and worry and confusion. His brow furrows, awareness bringing on a torrent of emotions, foreign and powerful. He’s trembling again, running his hands through his hair rougly. He only realizes that he was tearing at it when Maman captures his hands in her own, trying to calm him but only letting her worry bleed through more. “Make it stop!” he says (whispers? screams? he doesn’t know), wincing as it only makes the emotions swirling through his mind that much more violent.  
Maman, though, is decisive in the sudden, unnatural calm that’s settled over her. She scoops him up, puts him in the back seat of the car, and heads toward the Academy.

Everyone knows about the Academy, the one place where the many races and species of Lysani would coexist peacefully. It was also a place to bring the strange children, the ones with special powers and abilities. And after the night’s events, there was no doubt that Martin was special.  
The next time Martin opens his eyes, he’s in front of an old lady. She looks kindly, wise and benevolent. But there’s something about her that puts him on edge. So when he feels an unnatural calm settle over him, he fights back, even as he feels the clamoring roar of foreign emotions diminish to a low, managable gurgle. Sudden realization washes over him, and awe overcomes even the forced calm. “You’re a—a—a”

“Yes, child. I’m an Empath, like yourself. Although I must say, I’ve never seen one quite so young. You must have been very close to your brother, for his going away to awaken your powers. I am Madame Fauchelevent, headmistress here at the Academy.” She introduces herself, then turns to Maman to talk about boring adult stuff. So he climbs up onto the nearest chair, and, exhausted, falls asleep immediately.

The next morning he awakes to two older boys blinking down at him, one a scruffy, bespectacled human, the other a haughty-looking High Elf. “Whe—” he begins, but is interrupted immediately by the scruffy brunette.

“hospital wing, but we’re to bring you to the dormitory.” he spouts off quickly. “My name’s Combeferre, and this is Enjolras. You’re an Empath, aren’t you? I’m a Telepath, myself.”

Martin blinks, a bit overwhelmed. He looks down in embarrassment—usually he’s the chatterbox, he’s not used to not being able to get a word in edgewise—and finds that his arms are wrapped in crisp white bandages. “Did I do that?” He wonders aloud, forgetting for a moment about his two new aquaintances.

“Understandable, given your circumstances. Madame Fauchelevent says Empathic awakening without proper precautions can be traumatic.” It’s the High Elf who speaks this time, and Martin catches an edge of curiosity and even a little concern.

“We’re sorry about your brother, by the way.”

That caught Martin’s attention. “What happened to ‘Tiene?” his concern for his brother clear.

“Oh. I-I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I—you had to know, at least subconsciously, or I wouldn’t have been able to pick up on it…” The elf shoots a surprised reproving glance at Combeferre, who blushes. “Sorry. I still have some trouble controlling it at times…” He sighs, finally addressing the younger boy’s question. “Your brother died, Courfeyrac. Killed in the war. That’s what triggered your Empathic awakening.” Martin nods, sensing Combeferre’s genuine sympathy.

The two help him through his first few days and nights at the Academy. Enjolras, in particular, was surprisingly good at calming him when he was still, unfortunately, a very young boy away from home the first time. Soon, the three were fast friends, a bond that would last them a lifetime.


	2. Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is a High Elf. So why is he at the Academy?

As a rule, High Elves didn’t bother with the Academy.

It wasn’t that the place wasn’t a good establishment. Mostly, it was because the population was low, so the elves tended to keep their young close. Every clan had a ritual timing for children, and the Hysta’ai clan in particular had rigid timing. Every five years, two couples would be blessed by Styta, She Who Made The World, and they would each have a child. One male, one female, the two destined to be mates. They would live and work together once they’d reached the age of majority, and once the female reached child-bearing age, they’d be eligible every five years for a chance to raise a child of their own.

Of course, this doesn’t always work out perfectly. The year Alexander Enjolras was born, Marianne Lestrade was stillborn, leaving Alexander completely alone in a way no High Elf has experienced in centuries. After all, children being so rare, a pregnant High Elf got the best medical care, both technologically and magically, that the clan can provide. But it can’t always save the child.

So, when Alexander is old enough (7, since Elves mature emotionally and physically much faster than humans) he is offered a choice: stay with the Hysta’ai, forever known to be the lonesome one, or have a fresh start at the Academy.

It doesn’t take him long to chose.

When he gets there, he’s pleased to see that a Telepath is his ‘randomly selected roommate.’ They’re friends almost instantly, Combeferre cheering him on as he physically trains, Alexander always willing to offer himself when Combeferre feels the need to test his mental limits.

Then the Empath comes.

He doesn’t quite understand why he’s so drawn to Courfeyrac. After all, an Elf doesn’t often let baser emotions cloud their judgement, while the child seems to revel in the twists and turns of a mood. Yet, all the same, there’s a strange protectiveness to their relationship that is quiet and unspoken.

He’s fast asleep, the first time he’s slept well thus far, when a persistant tugging wakes him up. It’s Courfeyrac, looking very much like one of the youngest students the Academy has, sniffling a bit. “Is everything alright, little one?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, sniffling a bit more. “I wanna go home…” The child climbs his way onto the bed, snuggling up with him immediately.

Enjolras smiles fondly, a little of Courfeyrac’s homesickness washing over him, but mostly a protectiveness all his own.”It’s alright to miss home, Courfeyrac. Really.” The younger boy shakes his head, though, and burrows it into Enjolras’s chest. It takes a few quiet moments of Courfeyrac crying into his chest for Enjolras to realize the right words. “Courfeyrac. Styta, She Who Made the World, made us to be ourselves. She made us to eventually leave our homes and be our own people. But She also made all those around us to give us comfort when we’re upset and lonely and scared. She wouldn’t have given you the powers you have if She didn’t think you were ready for this step. You are stronger than you think.”

“R-really?” He looks up, eyes bloodshot and a little watery still. There’s a light to them that hadn’t been there before, though.

“Of course. Now go to sleep.”

“E-enjolras? I don’t wanna be alone tonight…” There’s an anxious tone to it He’s probably taking on some nerves from another student’s nightmare or something.

“Of course.” He moves over, making a bit more room in the bed for the boy, small though he is. Courfeyrac awakes a few more times during the night, but he falls back asleep rather quickly.

 

That moment seemed to cement their friendship, truly making it worth the cranky temper-tantrums Courfeyrac pulled the next morning from not enough sleep.


	3. Combeferre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre's parents knew he was different from the beginning, so the goodbyes were easier.  
> That didn't make it any less imperative to find a friend.

Every child knows the Creator, the great Thought-Being. She is their only company in the Darkness Before, and She does not abandon Her children. If you’ve ever seen a child simply stare at nothing, or speak to the empty space just off to the side, you’ve seen the child when he or she is with Her. Then the child grows up, and something changes within them. They can’t talk to Her anymore, and slowly most grow to believe She never existed, was just a childhood phase.

But some children don’t, and She most definitely has Her favorites. She knows the ones who will continue to believe, and she gifts them with abilities, tools against a world that will simply refuse to accept and understand them.

Michel Combeferre was one such child.

His parents knew from the start that he was different. He is not their first child, but from the moment he’s born, he is most definitely their smartest. There’s a look of curiosity that’s far too pointed for a new-born, more like the look of a scientist set on a new experiment than someone trying to figure out what the world is and why are they suddenly so cold?

So, the Combeferre’s knew that, one day, their only son was destined for the Academy.

Michel grew up quickly, and his mind was always sharp and thirsty for knowledge, but it wasn’t until he was eight that his real abilities came to the forefront. It was an ordinary, if trying day for his mother, so Michel looked at her and saw the chores that needed doing. He did them all, from the ordinary, daily task of straightening his room (he also did Genevieve’s because she was too young to see how tense Maman was) to the rather difficult chore of washing the dishes (he could barely reach the sink even with a step-stool). Maman smiled and praised him, but was still tense. So he curled up in her lap when she had a free moment and simply tried to reassure her. It came in a burst of knowledge what was wrong. “I’m sorry about Aunt Therese, Maman. Why did she have to marry someone so horrible?”

Maman stared at him for a moment—she hadn’t told anyone about the letter she’d received, let alone a young, impressionable child. But it was all she had been able to think about all day. “Michel, how did you know about Aunt Therese?”

“You were thinkin’ about it, and I just…knew.” He shrugs, not really thinking the event was all that important. He’d always gotten these small flashes of awareness with his family, even if this is the first time he’s gotten anything specific.

“Michel, darling. How would you feel about going to a special school? One where you can learn how to control that little talent of yours?” She knows that the time’s coming to say goodbye to her little boy. Because the Academy was the best resource for families like hers but…well, she’d be giving up her little boy for all except the one week at Solstice where the children have the option of going home. The school is willing to take children of any age, although the average is around 10, so Michel will be one of the younger ones.

Far from any fear at the prospect, Michel looks curious. He’d picked up on her nerves about it (not using any powers—he just knew his Maman) and tilted his head. “You mean the Academy? I guess I’d like it, but what about the girls?”

“They…they aren’t different like you, Michel. They can’t go to the Academy. But you’ll make new friends on your own, good friends.”

He nods, then, and scampers off to pack his bags. He wasn’t really scared about the Academy, merely curious. He knows it’s for people who are different, and he wants to know the various ranges of different. How many elves are there? Are Skinchangers allowed to go there, even with the War?

The first person he meets there is a High Elf, blonde, with a slightly unsure look on his face. Combeferre tilts his head, and another burst of just knowing informs him that it’s the elf’s first day as well. “Hello. I’m Michel Combeferre. What’s your name?”

“Alexander Enjolras.” The name seems to roll off the boys tongue. “So, what makes you special?”

“I dunno the word for it, but I just…know things. Things I shouldn’t, apparently. What about you? High Elves don’t usually attend the Academy.”

“My S’tylar did not survive.” The words are clipped and though no human has ever understood their significance, Combeferre just…knew.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Tru’sar maih-ta.” He fumbled with the pronounciation a bit, but the words were right, the traditional condolence given by Enjolras’s people, yet heartfelt in a way any High Elf would be embarrassed of.

“Thank you, Combeferre.”

The boy blinks. “Did you just…nevermind, I like it. Do you mind if I call you by your last name, too?”

“Of course not.”


	4. Jehan and Bahorel, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Handsome Prince, a Princess, and a philosophizing dragon meet at a tower.
> 
> When the Prince is Bahorel and Jeanne Prouvaire is the Princess, this is /not/ the recipe for a classic fairy-tale ending.

Once upon a time, there was a Handsome Prince.

Ok. So Tristan Bahorel wasn’t conventionally handsome. He had a few too many scars, and, anyway, he didn’t care enough to take care of his clothes the way a Handsome Prince should. More importantly, rescuing the ‘princess’ was the last thing he wanted to do. But…well, if nothing else, he got to fight a dragon.

Far away in a tower, there was a beautiful Princess locked in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon.

Or maybe not so much. Jeanne Prouvaire wasn’t really locked in. It was just home. Besides, Persephone the Dragon was a charming and witty conversationalist, and all Jeanne’s cats lived in the tower with her. She would have been happy to live there all her life, except for the fact that when she turned sixteen, some sword-happy, pimple-faced ‘Prince’ would ‘rescue’ her. She did not intend to stay for that.

So on her sixteenth birthday, she packed a bag.”I’m sorry, Persephone, you’re on your own. I can’t stay and be carried off like a sack of potatoes.”

“I’d protect you, My Lady. It’s rare to find a knight who does not roast well…”

“I know you would, Persephone, but somehow they always manage to get by. I can’t risk that.”

She didn’t go unarmed, though—she was skilled with a longsword herself, and knew how to defend herself, should she need to. She paused just at the door, though, as the sounds of a raging battle filtered through the walls. The tension seems to have frozen her to the spot, broken only when she hears a thundering roar of anguish. “Persephone!”

She rushes out, drawing her sword, ready to meet the ‘prince’ in battle, only to stop in surprise when he…well, fails to do so. She just barely manages to get her sword up in time to defend herself, blocking higher than she would like. “Whoah, whoah…I’m the Princess, you buffoon!”

“Shit! I’m sorry, I just thought…wait, you’re a Princess? Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“Where’d you learn to stab innocent dragons?!”

 

“I didn’t stab her. And where do you get off protecting the beast? It was keeping you locked in a tower!”

“She was my only defense against boredom! And you’ve hurt her! So, I propose we settle this like gentlemen—”

“—but—”

“We fight to first blood. If you happen to draw it, you may take marry me, as the entire world expects you to. If I draw first blood, then you must find yourself a new bride. Either way, you must bring me to the Academy.” She doesn’t let him answer before beginning, slashing low to test his defenses.

The clash of swords echoes for an eternity, Persephone hovering anxiously while nursing her wounds. Each blow is countered expertly and met with the next, but the Princess was nimbler and had far more stamina than one would think. So when the Prince finally stumbled and she drew first blood, it came as a surprise to him.

“Well fought, My Lady. Well fought!” He’s smiling and laughing as he removes his helm, offering his hand to shake. “Tris Bahorel at your service.”

“Jeanne Prouvaire, but anyone I like calls me Jehan. You may, if you would like. Now. Take me to the Academy.”


	5. Jehan and Bahorel, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well...now they've found eachother, how will they react to the others?

“It’s about time you got here, Tris. I thought I was going to have to graduate without you!” The kid runs up, hugging Bahorel before he could react.

“Whoa, there, Courfeyrac. Calm down buddy…” Bahorel laughs, hugging back. It’s been years since he’s seen the kid, and God, he’s grown. “How old are you now?”

“Eleven, Tris. I thought you said you’d remember!” Courfeyrac cocks his head suddenly, looking at the ‘Princess.’ “Why’s she so mad at you?”

Jeanne takes this in stride, having expected wildly different types at the fabled Academy. If an Empath was as crazy as it got…well, she could deal with the disappointment. “He hurt Persephone.”

“For the last time, the dragon was about to fry me. I had to do it!”

“You didn’t slay the dragon? C’mon, man, what ever happened to our promise?”

“You promised to kill an unarmed dragon?”

“Alright, alright, both of you let me talk, ok? Yes, I made a rash promise to a little kid—don’t argue, Courf, you’re still a little kid—when I was ten. Yes I broke that promise today because I grew up and realized how stupid it was. And no, that dragon is not unarmed. It has flaming breath. In my eyes, at least, that’s pretty dangerous.” Bahorel frowns a bit. This was not what he expected to come to when he got to the Academy. Courf is pouting, sticking his tongue out at him. Jeanne is glaring at him.

The tense silence is broken by an unassuming boy about his age, with brown hair and well-cared-for glasses. “It’s not worth fighting over. Really. Courfeyrac should be mature enough to handle the disappointment, and to know that dragons are just as much sentient, intelligent creatures as we are, by now.” He shoots a look at the younger boy before turning his attention back to them. “Michel Combeferre, Telepath. You must be Tristan Bahorel—Courfeyrac couldn’t shut up about you the first few months he was here. And then all this month. And you are, Mam’zelle?”

“Jeanne Prouvaire. You can call me Jehan, though.” She smiles (she’s actually pretty when she’s not pissed off…), intrigue. “I’ve always heard about Telepaths and…Empaths?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Courf is still pouting at her, but for a different reason now. “Combeferre, I wanna get icecream. You said I could!”

“Fine, go get it….there’s a good reason you don’t usually find Empaths with their powers before puberty. Honestly, I don’t know how his mother dealt with him.”

“Mostly, she didn’t until he was exhausted. She worked. I was usually the one babysitting.” Bahorel interjects before he can stop himself.

Combeferre blinks a bit in surprise. “I—I didn’t know that.”

“Not used to your telepathy trick not picking up everything? Get used to it, the kid’s hard to read even when you’ve known him since birth…” Bahorel is surprising himself with how defensive he’s being. He knew he’d be meeting people with different abilities in the Academy. He knew that Courf was bound to make new friends. But the fact that this skinny nerd was basically parenting Courfeyrac just set him off for some reason.

An Elf comes by, standing at Combeferre’s side instantly. “Is there a problem?”

Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Bahorel all answer at once “No.”

Jeanne smiles then turns to the Elf. “Yes, but the all have too much testosterone to admit it. If I’ve figured things out right, Bahorel is fighting with Combeferre over surrogate-parenting methods, and Courfeyrac is pouting over the breaking of a promise made when he was 4.”

He rolls his eyes. “Alexander Enjolras.” He smiles, just slightly, then raises his voice slightly. “While your ‘fighting spirit’ is quite admirable, Bahorel, might I suggest you direct it toward a more reasonable opponent? Combeferre and I mean you no harm, and I’m sure Combeferre’s differences in…parenting…were not intended to offend.”

Bahorel blushes a bit, relaxing from the defense-stance he’d assumed at one point. “My apologies, Telepath.”

“My name is Combeferre.”

“Oh, relax. I hardly ever call anyone by their proper name.”

Well…it was always in interesting friendship between the five. Bahorel never lost the fighting spirit, although, when Enjolras finally found his cause, Bahorel did indeed redirect it towards their common enemy. Jeanne made a place for herself, reveling in the poetic possibilities of every new person she met.


	6. Feuilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly has been orphaned, and raised in the Academy. As a half-elf, he is shunned by both humans and elves. Will he ever find a friend?

I really don’t like how this one turned out, but jfk, Feuilly would not cooperate with me on it. So, this is what you get.

Although the Academy had a nursery, it was used very, very rarely. The last time it was used, the child in question was dropped off as an infant. He was a Half-Elf, with blue skin, and fair enough night vision, but none of the true strengths of either species.

The boy’s birthname was Feuilly—no first name. Sister Simplice, the woman entrusted with the boy’s care, fondly named him ‘Pierre.’ It fit, in her mind, because the particular shade of his skin as a baby was slate gray, so it made sense to call him ‘stone.’

He was mostly alone as a child—the older students tended to avoid him. Until the little Empath came, that is.

He met the three friends when he was seven. Combeferre and Enjolras were polite and welcoming, even if the academic interest Enjolras was taking was a little off-putting. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, attached himself to Feuilly with all the over-abundant energy of any five-year-old.

“You don’t have to be lonely anymore, Feuilly! I’m Martin Courfeyrac. I’ll be your friend.”

“Courfeyrac! You know you’re not supposed to do that!”

“Sorry, ‘Ferre, I can’t help it. Even without it, he just looks it!”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind. He’s cute. Relative?”

“No. He might as well be, though, given how he’s pretty much latched onto myself and Enjolras when he came here.” He smiles fondly. “Sorry…he’s really not supposed to use his power on strangers.”

“What does he do? Empath?”

Combeferre and Enjolras both nod proudly. “…You’re a half-elf, aren’t you? …I know it’s rude to ask, but I’ve only heard rumors that they exist and…to come to the Academy despite pressure from both your cultures is incredible!”

“Enjolras! I swear, normally, they’re not this rude…” Combeferre blushes, embarrassed for them.

“No, I don’t mind. It’s honest.” Feuilly smiles, slightly embarrassed but also happy. For the first time since he can remember, he feels like he actually belongs here.

Courfeyrac positively beams—he must sense the shift in Feuilly’s emotions. “I just know we’re gunna be best friends!”

Well…maybe not best friends as much. Although the three are awfully close to him in the beginning, as they grow and their circle of friends expands, Feuilly is just slightly left by the wayside. It wasn’t that they didn’t like him. Even as an adult, Enjolras’s pure—fan-boy-ing, for lack of a better term—over him is sometimes a little too much. But he is simply not one of the Power Trio, as Bahorel has dubbed them. One might think such exculsion would sting, but it doesn’t—it’s not really a conscious choice on their part, and Feuilly has made other friends as well.

And he finally belongs.


	7. Joly and Bossuet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Legendary Shape-Shifter in Joly's town is called the Eagle. What happens when Joly is the one to finally find him?

Although most humans with Abilities go to the Academy, it’s not a requirement. Since Joly’s ability was primarily genetic, his parents had decided to keep him home until he was old enough to make the decision for himself. Joly, like his mother, was a Healer—some one who can take another person’s injury upon themselves, then heals it.

From a young age, Joly knew he’d rather stay home. It was simply safer. But it didn’t stop him from joyfully playing with the other boys in his town, which was how he heard about the Eagle, a Shape Shifter with the worst luck imaginable and a preference for birds of prey. Everyone knew about the Eagle—rumor had it, he used to live in their very same town before he realized what he was and went to live in the wild, and that his parents were also Shape Shifters, and their parents before that.

Nearly all small towns have their own traditions and rituals. Joly’s was no different. At 11 years old, to prove themselves, every boy would go out into the wild forest for a week, trying to find the Eagle. When Joly’s turn came, he was alone, the only boy of age to search this year.

Darkness fell quickly in the woods, the sun setting before he had a chance to build a fire. He keeps trying, though, because he knows what could happen if he gets too cold, if he get’s hypothermia, if he were to be bitten by a snake—

There is a sudden crashing among the higher branches, then the screeching call of an eagle. Could it be? He looks up, just in time to see a bald eagle plummeting through the canopy of the forest. One wing was flapping valiantly, though it often got caught against the branches. The other was held by its side, the angle too awkward to be natural. All too soon, it more crashed than landed, intact wing folding tightly, face tight with pain. “Some help, please, friend?"

Joly hurries to the animal’s side, realizing in an instant exactly who and what it is. “You’re the Eagle, aren’t you? The Shape Shifter?" He’s smiling as he gently touches the wing. The Eagle twitched, instinctively edging away from the pain. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’m a Healer. But I need to be touching the wound to Heal it, ok?" He’s never healed something this big, this complex, and it makes him slightly nervous, but he has to work through it.

"Really? I’ve never heard of a Healer before…"

"What happened to you?" Joly asks before he can stop himself. It’s rude, but it might distract them both. He touches the wing gently again, letting power surge through him. He hisses—a broken arm hurts and the agony, though brief, is intense. 

"…I owed a warlock some money. He decided he didn’t like my being able to change shape while avoiding him, so he cast a spell on me. I’m stuck as an eagle. I’m Lesgles, by the way, but friends call me Bossuet." The Shape-Shifter ruffles his wings, pleased by the way that the left one folds back against his side neatly. “I suppose the flying part will be fun, and I’d rather be an Eagle than anything else if I had to be something other than a human, but the whole crashing through the forest part was…rather painful."

"Yeah. I know."

"I am sorry—you didn’t have to do that, if you didn’t want to."

"No, no, it’s alright. Better already." He grins. He’s not lying—the pain is just completely gone, which means he’s successfully healed the injury. “How’s the wing feel? Oh, and I’m Joly."

"It’s a lot better. Thanks. Are you going to go to the Academy?"

"I wasn’t planning on it, no."

Bossuet looks surprised. “Really? You’re going to pass up free education?" Not that he’s all that impressed with education in general. He just wanted the free room and bored. Besides…where else was a talking eagle going to go? He could hardly just stay in the wild—he didn’t understand it well enough, and with his luck…well, it would never have ended well. 

”..maybe I will go then. But only if you go with me."

"Agreed."


	8. Musichetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She always knew she was destined to be one of three.

There is a nomadic, wandering tribe of humans known as the Mytrastar, the Moon-Followers. Among them, there are few indeed who do not know the wonders of Styta, and follow the traditions of the Elves, if in a bit more openly joyous manner. And when one is born among them who is gifted by Styta, that person is celebrated and adored.

One small girl, Musichetta, was being feted the very day, far away, the Eagle fell through the trees and met his Healer. She had no idea of this at the time, but that is of little consequence.

“‘Chetta, you are coming to the dance afterwards, aren’t you?" One of her friends asked, giggling. 

"Actually, I don’t know that I will…"

"Oh, come, you have to go!" Another implored. They all knew the significance of the dance—it was a way for young girls to stake out potential matches, to maybe even impress their future husbands. It’d be their only chance this year and some were old enough that it was terribly important, Musichetta among them.

Her eyes—fortune-teller’s eyes, they’re often called, more right than most know—flashed emerald as she laughed. “Why, I’ve had a vision! I can’t possibly meet a future husband here!"

"You’ve seen him, then? You’re groom?" The girls all ask together. They’re abuzz with excitement, latching on to the gossip.

"Not him, them. There are two—handsome, kind, everything I could wish for! But there’s danger for them, too, unto—" She breaks off suddenly, her eyes loosing focus as a scene plays out before them.

 

The picnic blankets of the banquet field dissolve, leaving a war torn desert in their wake. There’s a man—no, two. One is a smaller, worried-looking man with dark hair and clearest green eyes. He’s kneeling beside the other, a balding yet handsome man with bluest of blue eyes and a kind face. He’s bleeding heavily from somewhere—she can’t tell where, the blood is everywhere. 

She looks around, only to find herself crumpled on the ground near him. There is no visible wound on her, but it’s clear that there’s something terribly wrong. The dark-haired man turns, reaching towards her. He manages to hold her hand while maintaining contact with the balding man. "Musiche—" The dark haired man starts, then breaks off with a strangled cry. There is no visible change on the dark haired man, but the balding one seems to recover slightly, and the her prone form stirs. Except…except…the dark haired man suddenly collapses, hands clenching spasmodically into fists and muscles tensing. 

The balding man and Musichetta both are at his side immediately, holding his hands and calling out his name—it’s ‘Joly,’ her dream-self knows this but her true mind is grasping at the new knowledge. But it’s too late. Joly has ceased breathing, and nothing they can do will help. 

The balding man transforms suddenly, into a raven, cawing its grief and sorrow in a song too raw and terrible to listen to. She turns—not the dream-self, her /real/ self, and the scene fades back.

 

“‘Chetta? Musichetta, are you alright?" It must have been longer than she thought—they were all crowded around her, worried looks being exchanged. “Lieran, go get some of the Elders, she’s not well…"

"No, no, I’m fine…I just…I should get some rest. I’ll just…go home now."

Lieran speaks up. “At least let me walk you home, ‘Chetta?"

"Of course."

The weeks until she can leave for the Academy are long and rough, but soon enough, she finds herself packed and ready to leave and facing Lieran for the first time since the feast. 

"Be sure to write, Musichetta!" She’s grinning, but it soon falls flat. “I’ve got a question, though. What exactly did you see, that day?"

‘Chetta offers a mysterious half-smile and shrugs. “It doesn’t matter much."

"But it was so long, ‘Chetta, and you were so…withdrawn afterwards."

"I saw death, alright! Is that what you’ve been longing to hear?" She snap, suddenly angry. After all, she’s wanted nothing more than to forget about the vision, and now her friend is simply bringing it up again. “Look, I need to get away from here, ok? I…I just can’t stay and make a fool of myself about two men I might never meet. At least out there, I have a chance." Lieran leaves it at that, and she finally gets to leave.

The first people she meets upon arriving are the dark-haired man and an eagle—although, the vision must have been of the far distant future, as the dark haired ‘man’ could hardly even be 13..

"Oh, hello. I’m Musichetta."

"I’m Joly and this is Bossuet. Pleasure to meet you." The boy looks smitten already with her, and the bird looks vaguely amused. 

"I must be in luck for once, to meet such a beautiful lady." The bird said…wait.

The eagle just spoke to her.

The /eagle/ just /spoke/ to her. “Am I crazy?"

"No, you’re not." Joly laughs. His laugh is gorgeous and amazing—deeper than his speaking voice and heartfelt. “Bossuet’s a Shape-Shifter…except he managed to piss off a warlock, so he’s stuck in eagle form."

"Ok. Ok, good…" She breaths out a chuckle of her own, hardly believing her own luck. The eagle had to be the Balding Man, the one she saw in the vision. She remembers, of course, the horrid truth of the vision, the cruelty of the death it portrayed. But she pushes it aside. She’s learned by now that she cannot stop the visions from coming true, so she’s determined to use every moment she can with these boys, her boys already. She must love them totally, completely, and without reserve, because their time is very limited.


	9. Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blind man loves the light, and so Grantaire could not live without Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many thanks to Mel, tumblr user pontparnasse, for being my new beta-reader.

Dark Elves were once the same as High Elves. They worshipped Styta, they frolicked in the forests, they were at one with nature and themselves. Then, a necromancer and his followers broke apart, worshipping the Goddess’s darker brother, Traistrar. Over time, they evolved to live underground. Their skin grew to a dark midnight-blue. Their crimson eyes saw infrared light, sensing heat rather than seeing color. They were deadly creatures who lived by a code of honor more demanding and more warped than any on the surface. To a Dark Elf, to show mercy is to deserve death yourself. To a Dark Elf, to kill is a glory; to get caught is a disgrace.

Grantaire was already marked as different from the moment he was born—by some trick of genetics, he was completely infrared-blind, and partially light-spectrum-blind. To have such a weakness—if his mother weren’t already a powerful matron, he would have been killed long ago, sacrificed to an uncaring God. As it is, he knew from the beginning that he would be judged that much more harshly.

"Go, get out of here!" He whispers furiously, trying to distract attention away from the wounded High Elf. If anyone saw him showing mercy, he was as good as dead. “Leave!" The surface-worlder isn’t moving fast enough, is clumsy and slow in the deep darkness. Oh no—Grantaire senses eyes on him and the fleeing elf.

"What are you waiting for? Kill it."

He chases after the surface dweller, easily catching up. After a quick look around, he grabs the elf’s arm and starts dragging him along, pulling him through tunnels and corridors that will lead to the surface. It’s a long way, but he knows these corridors well enough that he does not need vision. The sprint is harrowing, as they have to stop every few minutes to check for pursuit, and Grantaire is relying on his sharp hearing—but the elf next to him is breathing heavily and loudly, masking most sounds. “Can you shut up for a minute?" He finally snaps in a furious whisper when they’re close to the surface. He’s been almost sure he’s heard pursuit for the past half-mile, but he can’t be sure. He keeps them against a wall, pressed close for stealth, for a solid five minutes, until he’s sure they can leave safely. Because once they reached the surface, he’d be next to useless.

"I—I have to thank you somehow, Monsieur." The High Elf offers once they hit the surface. He’s fatigued, yet Grantaire is struck, once the limited vision he has adjusts to the light, by his otherworldly beauty. 

"You must not know about my culture, Surface Dweller. I would be dead if I stayed." He shrugs it off though. “My name’s Grantaire."

"I—" The Elf (and in his mind, this creature truly deserves the capitalization) breaks off, wincing in pain. “I’m Enjolras. W-we need to get back to the Academy." He’s clutching his right arm tightly but blood sluggishly seeps through anyway. He starts leading away. “C’mon. You are coming, r-right?"

"I—" Grantaire breaks off, squinting to try and keep the Elf in sight. “Y-yeah. I’ll come." He doesn’t say anything about how the sun is already burning his sensitive skin, darkened for the sake of camouflage, not UV absorption. He doesn’t mention that he can barely see, and the auditory input is so much more than he’s used to that he might as well be deaf.

"Good." They travel in silence. This time, it’s obvious that he’s the one out of place. Although his steps are just as silent as the High Elf’s, he is bewildered and stumbling, as blind and deaf in the light as Enjolras had been in the dark. Finally they reach a huge stone castle (haphazardly designed, he thinks. It’s like they don’t know the flow of rock.) and Enjolras relaxes immensely. Almost immediately, a flock of young men surrounds him. Two—a scraggly-haired brunette with glasses and an auburn boy with a contagious smile—are staring at him curiously. Another boy, tiny with jet black hair is pushing Enjolras’ sleeve up with trembling hands, breathing deeply as if preparing himself for something. Then the boy touches Enjolras’ arm and the wound fades before his eyes, reappearing briefly on the boy before disappearing for good.

"Enjolras, why did you bring one of them with you?" It’s the auburn boy, younger than all the rest now that he looks, bouncing with excitement.

"He needed my help. He would have died if he stayed. Everyone, this is Grantaire. Grantaire, these are Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet—yes, I know he’s a bird, but he can talk—, Bahorel, and Jehan. Feuilly is inside, I’m assuming?"

He glances at the others—the one introduced as Combeferre nods. "Someone needed to stay in class."

"So, Grantaire," Courfeyrac, the young auburn, begins. “Why are you so lonely?"

"Courfeyrac!"

"Oh, hush, Combeferre, I’m not hurting anyone, I’m not changing anything. I was gunna sense it anyway." the boy’s words may be exasperated, but the tone is light and his eyes are smiling.

"I don’t mind him asking questions. I just can’t promise he’ll get the best of answers…as for why I’m lonely, I guess I just always have been. A blind Elf has no place in Dark Elven society. Weakness is not tolerated."

"But it’s not weakness" Jehan blurts out—Grantaire realizes just now that this one is actually a girl. “It’s a gift from Styta, the gift that led you to us!"

"it’s a weakness when you’re living underground and you’re the only creature without infrared vision."

The students he had met that first day were idealists, believers in unified Lysani. He watched, he listened, but he never believed it. After a time, he even came to mock their beliefs. Why stay, some might ask, if he did not believe? Well…no one knew better than he that a bind man loves light. And just as much as he would never go back underground after seeing the light of the sun, he can’t go back to not having Enjolras’ presence in his life, even if it’s only in the form of derision. He respects Enjolras all the more for it—he is a High Elf among humans. He would scorn a Dark Elf, the species that stands against everything he stands for.

It was only much later that he find that Enjolras has always accepted him, just as he would have accepted any Dark Elf who showed even a glimmer of potential for change. It was the moment of mercy that permitted Grantaire this discovery.


	10. Marius Pontmercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was hard to describe, his....power.

Marius Pontmercy was raised by his grandfather, Monseiur Gillenormand. His mother had died long ago, and his father was disapproved of. He had fought in the war when it was still merely skirmishes, but he held ideals radical to the mercurial old man.

One day, Marius received a letter.

_My dearest son,_

_I know I have not been present in your life as of yet. But Marius, my son, I am dying._

_I would very much like to see you before I do, to meet you and see the man you've become._

_Warmest regards,_

_Cl Georges Pontmercy_

Marius hailed a cab, rushing to his father's side. Unfortunately, by the time he arrived, his father had already passed. "A pity," he heard one of the maids say to the concierge, no grief in her voice but instead aggravation, "He looked forward to the 'unification of the human factions,' he did. Always good for a few laughs."

Marius left, fuming. He didn't realize as he went, that the electric lights in the room were flickering  out. How dare M. Gillenormand keep him from his father, when all the man had done was dare to believe in a more hopeful, glorious future! He managed to reach a small, secluded corner of Stytarli Grove, and as he looked down, he let out a gasp. His fingers were surrounded by a halo of sparks! A shiver of fear ran down his spine--he'd heard rumors of people with powers, but he had never actually seen it before. The sparks leaped and danced, forming full lightening bolts shooting out toward the grove. "What do I do?" He whispered to himself, knowing full well that there was no one there to hear.

Some time later, there was a gentle yet strong hand on his shoulder. "First time, then, you poor dolt? You're lucky you didn't make the entire town loose power." The man was large and burly, a wolfish look on his face despite the kindness shown.  "Come, boy, let's get you home."

"Who are you?" Marius's voice trembled with fear. The man was intimidating to be sure, and Marius had never been the bravest of boys. Still when he got the answer, his heart soared with hope. 

"I am Professor Javert, of the Academy."

* * *

"...I'm telling you, Combeferre, no one's going to go for the program if you word it like that! It's too.... _science-y."_ Two teens about Marius's age were arguing animatedly when he entered, Javert at his back and propelling him forward. He never did speak with M. Gillenormand about going to the Academy. He had simply packed a back and left. Not that the older man seemed to mind. Gillenormand had, somehow, taken it into his mind that Marius's visiting of his dying father was a personal insult...

"Courfeyrac, calm down. Those who need to be involved will be enticed by the content, not the phrasing. Those who can't understand probably won't be interested in our goals anyway." The one called Combeferre shot back quietly, before gesturing to halt the conversation. He'd noticed Marius. "Oh, are you to be our new room-mate?"

"I...I...um..." Marius floundered for a moment, until he stumbled, being on the receiving end of a light shove from Javert. Then he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I have come to sleep with you."

The two other boys looked at each other, clearly struggling to contain laughter. It was the one referred to as Courfeyrac who recovered first. "We can handle him from here, Professor..." He spoke pointedly, visibly relieved when he saw Javert turning and walking away.  "Anyway, I'll take that as a yes, you're the new bunkie. C'mon, let me show you around..."

Courfeyrac was a force of personality, one Marius couldn't help but be drawn to. And anyway, he hadn't laughed at Marius's blunder--which was painfully obvious to him at that point, thank-you-very-much. 

Perhaps they could truly be friends....He was interrupted from his reverie when he realized Courfeyrac had been talking the whole time. "...Sorry, what was that?"

"I asked you what your power was." The repetition wasn't annoyed. Just a gentle reminder.

"Oh....um...." His power was a....difficult one to describe. He barely remembered what'd happened. Just that he was upset, and then there were sparks..."...Electricity, I think? I dunno, it was kind of quick...and I was upset."

"You still are, on some level, but that's ok. And electricity is cool. Is it only when your upset, or can you do it anytime else?"

"I dunno....just discovered it today."

"Well....probably best we don't try it now. Yours is...kind of on the dangerous side."

"Oh...ok then."

"Oh! Shoot, sorry, you'll think I'm rude. Martin de Courfeyrac, at your service, though you can promptly forget the participle. I tend to go by just Courfeyrac."

"I'm Marius. Marius Pontmercy..."

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is my first serious foray into fanfic in what feels like years, and my first posting here ever. All things considered, I'm fairly ok with this. 
> 
> Once I'm done figuring out how they all got here, I do have a serious plot in mind. But, naturally, I'm not unwilling to write one-shots in this universe if anyone wants a moment that just doesn't fit with the main flow.


End file.
